


Alignment

by allegorica



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Smooching, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3893188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegorica/pseuds/allegorica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke introduces Anders to a variety of alternative healing practices. None of them work, but they also kind of do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alignment

**Author's Note:**

> i come bearing sweet but naive hawke and angsty but somewhat receptive anders. also, i live perpetually in a world where horrible chantry incidents can totally be avoided and if you'd like to live in this world with me, you are welcome to read this as a step - not a complete fix, but a step - toward a less awful future. also, hey, constructive criticism is totally welcome. i'm always happy to improve as a writer so if you have some feedback for me and you want to say it nicely, please feel free!
> 
> Written for a prompt on the kink-meme:
> 
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11381.html?thread=49589621#t49589621

Cross-legged on a bamboo mat, his eyes watering with the heady scents of fragrant oils and burning incense, Anders regretted ever telling Hawke about Justice.

“Breathe,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Breathing reminds your body of its center, of who you really are.”

Anders was perfectly aware of who he was; an apostate with a fucking death wish. And he was already breathing, thank you, but rather than firing back with a snappy retort, he did as instructed. A long, low breath in through the nose, and a drawn-out exhale through the mouth. 

“You can make a little sound if it helps you find your center,” she said, punctuating her next breath with a murmured ‘om.’

There was only so far indulgence could go. Anders remained stubbornly silent, resisting the urge to scratch, fidget, or sneeze. Hawke was full of shit, most likely—he was a blighted spirit healer, he ought to know about things that healed versus things that made you look like a damned fool—but it certainly couldn’t hurt to cross his legs and hum a little. The time away from the clinic was nice, too. As much as healing was important and he hardly begrudged the people of Lowtown for their injuries and illnesses, caring for others took a toll. And for him, a toll meant Justice rearing his righteous head more often than not.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought. “Om.”

Hawke shifted, and he peered at her through one slitted eye. She was beaming at him, white teeth a gorgeous contrast to her tan skin, white flowers woven all through her dark hair. He could practically see her patting herself on the back for a job well done. “Om,” she said again, thumb and index finger pinched together, pert little nose pointed up.

“Om,” he agreed, if only to drown the interior voice that reminded him he was being disingenuous.

 

 

Hawke offered him the use of her bath after their bout of meditation, which Anders was not too proud to accept. You got used to a certain level of comfort in the Circle, and a hot bath—complete with soap, fresh towels, and clean clothes—was something he didn’t often get in Lowtown. He’d take it, even if Hawke insisted that he let the incense burn throughout “to keep your chakras open.”

Anders had only the vaguest notion of what a chakra might be, but the incense didn’t particularly bother him beyond making his nose itch and he’d have sat in a room that stunk of pig shit if it meant he’d get to take a hot bath. He sunk into the water, feeling the aches in his knees and arms melt away in the heat. He knew overhealing was a good way of getting himself sick or injured, and not having him at his best would eventually come back on his patients as their healer was no longer able to help. But slowing down meant turning people away, and that was something he was not prepared to do.

He ran his fingers through his hair, cursing every decision he’d made to lead him to this place. Not this bath, specifically—the bath was nice, _incredible_ , actually—but to the Free Marches, to Kirkwall, to being a renegade apostate with a spirit taking up half his skull. And to Hawke—sweet, eccentric Hawke, with her natural remedies and penchant for touching anyone and anything that let themselves get within arm’s reach. She’d petted his pauldrons the first time they’d met. Rather than turning him away after finding out about Justice (as he both feared and hoped she would) she invited him to stay, promising that she’d help him as much as he’d helped the people of Lowtown. 

There was a gentle knock at the door and Anders sat bolt upright. “Mind if I come in?” Hawke asked, her voice sweet and lilting as always, just this side of a song. “I’ll close my eyes if you like.”

He cleared his throat. Time was he wouldn’t have batted an eye at a pretty thing like Hawke joining him in the bath—these days, Anders felt old and tired more often than not, and a vengeful spirit playing passenger in his body made him reluctant to think a thought that was less than pure. He sighed and sunk lower into the water, calling out, “Come in.”

True to her word, Hawke didn’t even try to sneak a glance at him; she walked sideways through the door and perched, her back to him, on the edge of the tub. “How do you feel?”

‘Tired’ was probably not the answer she was looking for, nor ‘angry,’ nor ‘annoyed.’ Instead, he settled for vague. “Fine.”

“Better?” 

“In what sense?”

She paused, a hand darting up to play with one of the flowers in her hair. “Centered. Peaceful. You know, better.”

He sighed. “I’m not sure.”

“That just means we’ll have to do it again, then,” she said, voice bright. “It rarely works the first time, and—“

“Hawke, where did you even learn this from?”

“It’s an ancient Rivaini practice,” she said matter-of-factly. “Proper breathing and stretching help open the chakras—“

“An ancient Rivaini practice,” he repeated. He could tell he was being rude but felt powerless to stop it. “Should I ask Isabela about it?”

“Isabela knows all about it,” she said. Anders could hear the hurt in her voice and he shifted further under the water. He shouldn’t be cruel to Hawke—even if she was incredibly naive, she was just trying to be kind. “Though she practices—um, _differently_.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant. He sighed again. “I suppose you know more about it than I do.”

“Bethany, Da, and I aren’t— _weren’t_ healers,” she said. Her voice wavered and Anders only just resisted the sudden urge to drown himself for upsetting her. “Had to learn to fix ourselves in other ways, you know. Da was always very big on reading, and I read this book on spiritual healing once, thinking it was ‘spirit healing,’ but—well, I never had the aptitude, like you do. Much better at setting things on fire, I am.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’d make a fine healer. I could teach you—“

“Oh, no thank you,” she said. “Look what it’s done to you, Anders! Treating yourself naturally is _much_ safer.”

“Magic _is_ natural, Hawke—“

She turned to face him before realizing what she’d done, her face flushing a brilliant red. “I’m sorry,” she said, but Anders couldn’t be sure whether it was for the ‘natural’ remark or for seeing him in the bath. 

“It’s fine—“

“But you have to admit that in Rivain and in Dalish culture they have a much friendlier relationship with magic. The Rivaini invite spirits into their bodies—“

Anders sighed. This conversation was taking a turn he didn’t much like. 

“—So it’s bound to help you too. It just takes practice is all; you can’t expect to reach harmony with your spirit with just one meditation. It could be weeks— _months_ —but I know this will work, Anders—“

“Hawke,” he said, in as quiet and peaceful a voice as he could muster, “have you considered that you’re neither Dalish nor Rivaini and therefore might not know exactly—“

“It’s not about what you are or aren’t,” Hawke said, with a tension in her voice that made him wonder if he wasn’t the first person to ask her this question. “It’s about connection. It makes sense to me. And besides, you’re the one always talking about how there has to be a better way, right? Well, they’ve found it, and it’s doesn’t _have_ to be like Tevinter, you see?”

“Could you—“ Anders sighed, bringing a soapy hand up to rub at his temple. “Could you pass me a towel?”

 

 

It was some time before Anders was willing to do anything but venture out to solve other peoples’ problems, treat the sick and injured at the clinic, aid mages in their escape from the Circle, and fall into dreamless sleep. There was so much else to worry about, and any moment not spent making the world better was a moment wasted as far as Justice was concerned; it was a miracle he was able to sleep at all with the blighted manifesto always on his mind.

But Hawke, relentlessly positive as she was, wouldn’t allow him to sit and wallow in the world’s problems. She showed up at the clinic, a bottle of wine in one hand and a basket in the other, a smile on her face.

“Hawke,” he said, lips curling in the slightest smile. “Good to see you, but I was just about to—“

“Anders,” she said, her head cocked slightly, expression strained. Her big eyes looked to be on the verge of tears. “Anders, you _have_ to take care of yourself.”

“I know, and I will—I _do_ —it’s just that—“

“Anders,” she said again, and something in her voice made him stop talking, if only for a moment. “Please. I’m trying to help.”

He took a slow, deep breath. The manifesto could wait, couldn’t it? She looked so damned earnest, and he wouldn’t be any good to his patients if he fainted from exhaustion, and just because there was a bottle of wine didn’t mean he had to drink any, and—with no response from the spirit, Anders offered her a watery smile. 

“Okay,” he said. “I guess it can wait.”

Her smile seemed to fill the whole room with light. “Oh, _good_ ,” she said, setting the bottle down and wrapping him in a hug, squeezing him so tightly about the middle that he struggled to breathe. 

His heart thumped a steady staccato against his ribcage and he felt a sudden desire to slither away from her, but not even he could be so heartless. Anders heaved a heavy sigh, letting her squeeze the air out of him for a moment before putting a gentle hand on her shoulder— _as if I have any right to touch her_ —to signal that it was enough.

He took a deep breath of stale Lowtown air, smoothing the rumples from his robe. “So what is it this time? Meditation? A bubble bath? Prayer?”

“Have you tried yoga?”

“Yoga,” Anders repeated. He’d heard of it but had never had reason or occasion to try it; there were far more important things in the world to do than stretching.

“Yoga,” Hawke said, nodding. “It’s a spiritual, mental, and bodily practice that helps you regulate your thoughts and center yourself.”  
He bit back a snappy remark. He had no reason to lash out at Hawke, no matter how naive she was. And it couldn’t hurt; he’d done plenty more stupid things in his life than stretching and breathing.

And that’s how, some time later, he found himself with his arse in the air and palms and feet on a woven straw mat. Anders snickered at the thought—certainly wasn’t the first time he’d had his arse in the air—and nearly fell over with the shock of it. How long had it been since he’d made a dirty joke like that, even to himself?

Hawke slipped fluidly out of her pose, graceful as water running over a stone, and spun to question him with those big, brown eyes. “Are you okay?”  
Anders coughed to cover up the last breath of laughter, biting his lip to straighten his face. “Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Were you—were you _laughing_?”

“No,” he lied, and felt a surge of heat in his guts. “Yes,” he said. 

She tilted her head. One strand of hair had worked its way free from her bun and delicately framed edge of her face, pointing almost directly to her lips, which were curved in a smile. Anders swallowed as she asked, “About what?”

“N—nothing,” he said. Maker, when had he developed a stutter? “I just—“ He let his eyes slip over her shoulder to the clock he’d set up to remind him that the clinic had to close on occasion. “—I’m sorry, Hawke, I have to get to the market before the herbalist closes—“

“Okay,” Hawke agreed. Her hand rose to brush the stray piece of hair out of her face. She offered him a skeptical look—eyebrows up, a thin smile—and patted him lightly on the shoulder. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t forget!”

He exhaled. How could he?

 

 

Within two weeks, Anders could hold himself in that absurd arse-up pose Hawke was so fond of for fifteen minutes without having to shift the weight away. Impressed as he was with his own physical prowess, still more impressive was the way his mind had quieted; quite frequently, he went hours without the pressure and nagging feeling that was Justice. He’d laughed—outright _laughed_ —at one of Isabela’s bawdy songs, and had even chimed in with a verse he’d picked up from a fellow mage at Ferelden’s Circle. He hadn’t picked a fight with Merrill or Fenris in ages, finding both of them decidedly more pleasant than he had in the past (or at least as pleasant as one could find Fenris with his dour moods and propensity for blunt speech). 

And Hawke, with all her smiles and flowers in her hair and delicate touches to his back, shoulder, cheek, to reassure him that progress was gradual and there would be setbacks but look at the steps he’d made, the smile on his face, the difference it was making not only in himself but in the clinic—  
And it had made a difference; he’d cleaned up a bit with her help, scrubbing grime from the walls and changing the linens on all the cots. He’d organized the salves and poultices and developed more reasonable sleeping habits, helping him restore the mana he needed to heal his patients throughout the day.

Now the clinic had a faint smell of incense about it and it seemed somehow brighter, more open than it had before Hawke had gotten to it, humming faintly and tossing her long braid over her shoulder. You couldn’t cover up the smell of sickness, but even his patients said that it looked and smelled nicer in there, offering him smiles in exchange for his healing.

So he went along with her weird treatments, chewing herbs she picked up from Maker-knew-where, stretching upon waking every morning, taking floral-scented baths in the luxury of Hawke’s tub. Justice hadn’t left—Anders wasn’t naive enough to think that was going to happen thanks to stretching and nice smells—but the spirit was more manageable, more like a conversation happening in the next room than someone shouting constantly in his ear.  
And there was something else, too. He tried not to think of it much, but the thoughts kept appearing; as soon as he’d squash one down, another would appear in its place. And it wasn’t that Anders hadn’t been attracted to anybody since the whole Justice debacle—he was as great an appreciator of a fine physical form as anyone else—but anything that wasn’t helping the sick and needy or furthering the cause of mages was a blighted distraction to Justice and the spirit got vocal about things that distracted from the cause. But Hawke was—she was a mage herself, wasn’t she? And the things she was showing him could be beneficial to his patients, and she was helping him, and helping him meant helping others—

 _Fuck_ , he thought, rubbing his temples. It seemed a thousand years ago that he’d been attracted— _really_ attracted, not just appreciating the aesthetics of a good body—to anybody, and longer still since he’d been interested in, Maker forgive him, a _relationship_. And that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? He couldn’t imagine sleeping with Hawke once and that being it; no, he wanted to wake up beside her, to make her breakfast, to put his arms around her whenever he wanted. _Fuck_.

Attraction was easy. Wanting somebody as a lover—a real lover, not a one-time partner—was a good deal harder. Quashing emotions was easy with Justice filling his mind with other things he ought to be doing, but with the spirit much quieter these days he found his thoughts returning frequently to her laughter and kindness.

He had it bad. Bad enough that he told her he was too busy for yoga, too busy for meditation, too busy for _her_ for an entire week before Justice came crashing back into his skull like the Arishok on a mission. He tried doing the motions on his own to no avail; it just wasn’t the same without her guiding him, without the gentle reassurance of her palm on the small of his back or her smile when he finally got a position right after trying for several days. Anders took up furiously writing again, his quill flying over the page in handwriting that was only just his, the words always one step ahead of his thoughts. It was pure passion on the page, passion that he felt but also _didn’t_ feel, separate but present as a phantom limb.

When he collapsed into his cot at night, sweating, exhausted, hands shaking, he didn’t sleep. How had he coped with Justice’s intrusions before Hawke?  
That was easy—he hadn’t. He hadn’t been coping at all, and that was why, weird and nonsensical as Hawke’s treatments were, they’d done something.  
He sat upright, moonlight leaking in through the slitted windows to light the dust motes in the clinic. No, it wasn’t that. Anders slipped into his clothes, half-tying his boots and setting off, face set in determination, for the only thing in the entire blighted city that made even the slightest hint of sense.

 

 

It took several thunderous knocks at the Hawke estate door before the door opened. When it did, it was the bleary eyes of Bodahn that greeted him, asking, only slightly less politely than usual, what brought Ser Anders to the mansion at such an hour. 

He didn’t hesitate. “I need to speak with Hawke.”

“She’s already gone to bed, ser. Can I—“

Of course she had, the moon was high in the sky and the night air was cool on Anders’ skin. What had he been expecting, her to be lying awake, pining for him? _Stupid_ , he chided himself, and opened his mouth to apologize when Hawke’s voice rang out, high and clear—

“Bodahn? Is someone there?”

The dwarf looked behind him and back to Anders, before shrugging and opening the door. “Seems she’s still awake,” he said, stepping aside to allow him to pass by. 

Suddenly all of Anders’ insides had turned to jelly. What had he even come here for? All he had to do was say yes the next time she asked him to do yoga with her—there was no need to go barging to her house in the dead of night—

“Anders!” she exclaimed, her smile as big and welcoming as ever. She took a few quick steps down the stairs and wrapped him in a hug (Hawke was prone to hugs, never mind whether anyone else liked them or not), and Anders felt as though he were made of water, only held together by force of will. 

“I’m so happy to see you—are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Can I speak with you?” His mouth said the words without his permission. That was a blessing; he felt incredibly stupid, like he’d made a terrible mistake in coming here even if he knew that Hawke was happy to see him.

She grasped his fingers in hers, lighting the room with her smile and pulling him toward the stairs. “Of course. Come on, we’ll talk up there.”

He followed, lacking the will to do anything else. She led him up the stairs and into her chamber, where a fire was burning merrily in the hearth and a book lay upside-down on her bed, seemingly in the middle of being read. She took a seat beside it and patted the bed, offering him a seat. “What did you want to talk about?”

 _What, indeed_. Anders swallowed, trying to remind himself of why he’d come. He needed to apologize for telling her he didn’t have time—of course he had the blighted time, and if he didn’t have it he could have easily made it. But doing that would require explaining why he’d been avoiding her in the first place, and that wasn’t something he was sure he could confess.

“I don’t think your treatments are helping me,” he said, bluntly.

Hawke’s expression, curious and bright, crumbled as if she were a cake he’d crushed in his fist. “You—but I thought—“

“That was the wrong way to start this,” he said, feeling a blush crawling up his neck. _Maker_ , he thought, _could I be any worse at this_? Flirting was so much easier; toss out a compliment, follow it up with a joke and a delicate touch on the arm and you were in. But this wasn’t flirtation, it was confession. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I’m sorry that I—I’m sorry for a lot of things. I’m sorry for—if I start this, we’ll be here all night. I don’t think your treatments are helping, but I feel— _different_. Better. But also worse.”

Her eyes were big and bright, the fire’s reflection sparkling in their brown depths. “If it isn’t working, you just need more time—we’ll meet more frequently, or I have some other options we can try—“

“It’s not the treatments, Hawke. They don’t do anything—or rather, they might do something for somebody under a practiced instructor, but—please forgive me for what I’m about to say because it sounds terrible and I don’t mean it—that’s not you, Hawke. You’ve optimism and hope and patience but you’re not a Rivaini seer and you never will be.”

The look on her face made his chest ache. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “it’s not—you, Hawke, it’s you, _you’re_ what’s working.”

Her lip quivered. “But—but you said—“

“Hawke, if your treatment consisted of you saying nice things to me while stabbing me repeatedly in the gut, I think I’d still feel this way. Stronger, you know. My mind is quieter. I sleep better. Or I was sleeping better, feeling better, before I started telling you I was too busy.”

“See,” she said, grasping his large hands in her tiny ones, “see, it _is_ working, it’s only—“

“No, Hawke, it isn’t. _You_ are.”

She looked at him, head tilted, lips gently parted. Her dark hair framed her face as if it were a painting. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers stretched in Anders’ hands, slipping further into his palm.

“I don’t deserve anything you’ve done for me, Hawke—“

“Nonsense,” she said, shaking her head. There was an edge to her voice that he’d never heard before, a hardness where she’d been all soft petals and rainwater. “Of course you do.”

“I _don’t_ —“

“Anders,” she said, and his mouth clamped shut in response. “I help you because I want to, not because you’re deserving. And if there’s anyone more deserving of the healing and love they put forth into the world, I’ve yet to meet them.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, practically pleading with her to condemn him, to set him free. “The things I’ve done—the things I’m meant to do—“  
“You’re not meant to do a damn thing. You make choices, Anders, same as the rest of us. Some of your choices have consequences and of course you can’t go back and change them, but there is no set path for you, no ultimate goal—“

“There _is_ ,” he insisted. “Everything I am—it’s all leading up to the liberation of the mages, and that path—“

“That path is what you make of it,” she said. “Come on, Anders.” Hawke held his hands in earnest, cupping his fists in her own. “Breathe with me. In and out. Don’t think about the Gallows or the Circles or Kirkwall or any of those other terrible things—“

Anders pulled his hands away, anger—no, not anger, something worse—rising up in him like bile. “I can’t _not_ think of them, Hawke. That’s what I _am_ , it’s everything to me. If I forget, for even an instant—“

Without a word, she leaned forward until her lips brushed the tip of his nose. She smelled like lilacs and soap and dust, and he wished she might drown him in it.

A silence fell over them both, Anders’ protests swallowed up in surprise, his rant dead on his tongue. Instead, what crawled slowly out of his mouth was a whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “Don’t apologize for who you are.”

“What,” he said. “ _What_ I am.”

“Who. You’re Anders.”

“I’m not.”

“You _are_.” She slipped her tiny hands through his own again and he let her, trying to do as she’d said. Slow breaths, in, slow breaths out. “I have faith in you, Anders.”

In just six words, he was nearly undone. Few people had anything like faith in him; he was always one step from becoming an abomination, one mistake from ruining everything for everyone. He was a symbol, a message, a _virtue_ , not a person. The only faith he had in himself was in his anger, the anger that Justice fed like a fire. 

He swallowed, closing his eyes. He had nothing to say to that other than to warn her off or apologize again, for the thousandth time. What could he say that she hadn’t heard already? 

Hawke slipped her arms around his shoulders, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. “I forgive you, Anders. Even if you don’t forgive yourself.”  
He was frozen, his mind curiously silent. Drawing a shaky breath, he tried to make some sense of what she was saying, to turn it into something he could refute as easily as he refuted his own thoughts when they steered even slightly towards positivity. Nothing came. 

She pressed her lips to his jaw, lingering just long enough for his body to tense. “Everything will turn out right in the end,” she said. 

_But how can you know_ , he wanted to ask, but the words got stuck in his throat. Anders swallowed them down like a bitter pill, forcing himself to croak out, instead, “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” she said.

“I know.”

Hawke pulled away, smiling again. “I know you know. That’s what you were trying to say, isn’t it?” She ruffled the feathers on his pauldrons. 

He nodded. “That you’ve bothered to care—“

“I haven’t _bothered_ anything,” she said. Her voice was as light and melodic as ever, but there was a sharp edge to it, a warning. “I just care, Anders.“

“But—“

“I don’t want to hear you warning me off any more,” she said. She was still smiling, and she tapped lightly at the end of his nose with one finger. “I’m a capable adult and I can make my own decisions.”

“But—“

“But nothing, Anders. I care for you. I want you to be happy. No buts. I’m here for you, no matter the circumstances, no matter what’s going on in your head. Warn me off if you like, but I’ll still be here, believing in you.”

Anders found himself unable to look at her, his eyes instead on his palms. He traced one of the lines across his hand with one finger, finding words hard to come by. Justice’s presence was a gentle murmur insisting he deny her, telling him to get up and leave before the fire in him consumed everything, including himself, including her, but instead he swallowed hard and gathered her up in his arms, squeezing her as tight as he dared, whispering, “thank you,” so quietly he wasn’t even sure he was actually speaking.

Hawke cupped his face in her hands, bumping his forehead with hers. “I want to kiss you,” she whispered.

“Please,” he said, and she did. His mind was quiet but for the sounds of the fire and the feel of her lips on his, the softness of her hair, the clean and floral scent that was purely Hawke. For a moment, he was simply Anders; not mage, not apostate, not Justice. A moment was a small thing, but it felt like more.


End file.
